


To See Clearly

by Orchyd Constyne (slarmstrong)



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 22:12:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3305255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slarmstrong/pseuds/Orchyd%20Constyne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lindir returns to Mirkwood, to Thranduil's halls, and finds a second chance waiting for him</p>
            </blockquote>





	To See Clearly

**Author's Note:**

> // denotes a memory  
> ** hand signs

"Notice me  
Take my hand  
Why are we  
Strangers when  
Our love is strong  
Why carry on without me?"  
\-- Britney Spears, 'Everytime'

\---

_In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer. -- Albert Camus_

The last thing he remembered seeing was the pale, frightened face of the minstrel, sword in hand and blood spattered across his pallid flesh. That was an image forever imprinted on his mind, something that would never fade. He was struck down, blood flooding his mouth and sound drowned in a rushing wind. It had been hot that day, the smell of heated blood under the noonday sun was sharp in his nose, and the screams of battle were lost in the quiet deafness that engulfed him. No, the smell of the battlefield, the sounds of war, and the sight of his lover bathed in crimson and screaming his name were the things that haunted his every footstep, that followed him through dreaming, waking, and into his madness.

Sitting alone in his rooms, alone in his darkness, Thranduil pondered yet again his odd lot in his life. The crying of his only son went unnoticed, and the rushing of the governess was not noted. There was no indication the Woodland King had heard his child or seen the Prince's caretaker dash to the infant's side. It was as if he were deaf and blind to all around him, dwelling in a past time of harsh war and tender loving.

*****

Lindir slowly unpacked his belongings, hanging robes and fine tunics in a wardrobe while stowing leggings, trousers and standard tunics he wore every day in a series of drawers. He had been surprised when he had walked into Elrond's office a fortnight ago, offering to accompany Lord Glorfindel to Thranduil's realm. Lindir still did not know what possessed him to return to a past he had hoped to outrun, or why Elrond had permitted him to come. Whatever the reason, he was now a guest of King Thranduil, the golden-haired lover he had abandoned so many years ago.

The minstrel pushed the thoughts aside and finished his task. He glanced in the tall mirror in the corner of the room, catching a glimpse of his tasseled midnight hair framing too-white skin, his pewter eyes deep set and wide. Thranduil had found him dark and beautiful, lithe and musical, while he had found the then-Prince to be bright like the sun, outshining everything and anything that dared to stand next to him. His heart clenched in his breast and Lindir saw those large eyes fill with remembered pain.

He slammed his hand on the bureau and hung his head in a poor attempt to escape his own sins. With or without the looking glass, Lindir knew the anger Thranduil still held toward him, knew the sense of loss he himself still felt for the Elf. He could see clearly in his mind the laughing green eyes, but he could also see the club raised that bashed the back of his lover's head, that changed the course of their lives forever.

Why had he come back?

Because he loved Thranduil, a quiet voice in his mind whispered to him. He loved the King, and now that Thranduil had a son but had lost a wife, Lindir had hoped to... to what?

That voice spoke again. 'To hold him. To hold him and tell him you are so very sorry and you still love him.'

*****

The years had changed Thranduil little.

Physically, that is.

Lindir watched the King seat himself in his large, oak throne, his green eyes, pale as peridot and just as lifeless, staring out over the assembled court. He bowed, and a tall, well-dressed Elf took Thranduil's hand in his own and began to stroke the King's palm. Lindir frowned at the contact, but his attention was pulled away from the gentle movement by Glorfindel's melodic voice.

"King Thranduil," the Elda began, stepping closer to the throne. "I come on behalf of Lord Elrond Half-Elven, who was unable to leave his own realm. He has sent gifts for your newborn son, along with many treasures for your vast vaults for welcoming us into your realm. Lord Elrond also sends his condolences on the loss of your beautiful wife, and has also asked me to offer you this," he said, gesturing to Lindir who held out the large drape to the King. "It is a tapestry the Lady Celebrían and her maids have created for you, commemorating the day of your marriage."

There were a few more moments of silence before Thranduil finally spoke. "I wish to extend my hospitality to you and your traveling companion, my Lord Glorfindel." Lindir noted the muted, slightly thickened tone of Thranduil's voice, and cringed with memory. "Accept my invitation to remain in my realm until the turn of the season, at which time I will have an adequate response for your Lord." The Elf beside Thranduil continued to rub the inside of the King's palm, and this time Lindir's eyes narrowed with anger. There was something strange and inappropriate about the movement of the Elf's fingertips along Thranduil's skin, and Lindir tried not to stare. Who was this Elf who was touching a bereaving husband in such a manner and in such a public forum?

"My Seneschal will have the tapestry hung in the main dining hall where all who knew my late wife can enjoy it. I invite you and your companion to dine with me this eve in my private dining room, perhaps with the entertainment of my minstrel."

Thranduil smiled, though the expression did not reach those dull eyes, and Lindir's face reddened slightly with the idea of having dinner with Thranduil. Could he truly do that so soon? And to stay until Autumn fell and the leaves of this forest changed? No, he should not have left his valley, should not have come seeking his past.

"My Lord," Glorfindel said cheerfully, "I have brought with me Lindir, Elrond's Master Bard. If it would please you, he could entertain us after our evening meal. He is a most accomplished musician," he insisted, not noticing Lindir's stricken face.

More fondling of the King's hand, and widening of Thranduil's eyes as the realization of who stood before him washed over him. "Lindir?" he all but whispered.

"Aye, my Lord," Lindir said, his voice tight with restrained emotion.

"Lindir," Thranduil repeated. "Lord Glorfindel, did you not know that Lindir was my father's Master Bard before he took up residence in Elrond's fair valley? Aye, I am well aware of Lindir's... talents."

A bright red flush crept over Lindir's cheeks, and the minstrel knew Thranduil had intentionally filled that last word with innuendo. He hid his face behind his long hair when Glorfindel turned questioning eyes to him. He would not discuss his past with Glorfindel in front of dozens of Elves who would spread such gossip like a plague. Spending the remaining season here would then be unbearable. Instead, he chose to remain silent, hiding his shame as much as he could.

Thranduil released his Seneschal's hand and stood, the smile still not touching his cold eyes. "Aye, I will be most pleased to once again hear Lindir's lyrical voice. It has been such a long time since I have heard anything worthy of speaking of..." Thranduil's words trailed off and he shook his head. "After the sun sets, I will send for you."

Lindir watched Thranduil leave, that Elf close behind him, and he bit his lower lip to keep from shouting after them.

This was going to be a very long night.

*****

It was tense. Thranduil ate his tasteless meal, lost in a blackness he could never escape, only now that darkness was perfumed with Lindir's scent. His Seneschal sat close, the comfortable presence soothing his troubled spirit, but that scent of roses found blooming in piles of pine needles. It was a smell unique unto Lindir, and the minstrel used to laugh when Thranduil would describe it to him. But, it was true -- potent roses and molding pine in the dead of a cold night.

"My Lord," Glorfindel began, finally breaking the silence that had uncomfortably permeated the room.

Badhron took the King's hand in his own, and both Imladrian Elves looked to where their hands now lay entwined. Glorfindel chose to ignore the gesture, while Lindir swallowed another mouthful of sawdust that now lay heavy in his roiling belly.

"You said that Lindir had once been your father's bard. I did not know this." Glorfindel looked pointedly at Lindir who suddenly became interested in pushing his food about on his plate.

After a moment, Thranduil nodded. "Aye, he was. He was a dear... friend of mine for many years."

The Elda listened to Thranduil's voice as he had in the audience chamber, again noticing the odd sound it had. Because he had never spoken with the King before, he dismissed it as an oddness Thranduil possessed, even though the strangeness of it still tugged at him.

"We fought beside each other at Barad-dûr," Thranduil continued, "which was a far cry from the fire-lit halls of my father's compound where Lindir had plucked at his harp and sang like a bird for us."

Glorfindel seemed surprised. "Lindir fought there? I did not know that, and I was there with Gil-galad and Elrond."

Badhron stroked the King's palm, his face unreadable to any in the room as he listened to the conversation.

"We did not march under Gil-galad's banner, if you will remember. We marched under our own. As such, you would not have known who fought with us and who did not." Thranduil smiled that cold smile again. "But, he was an accomplished warrior who defended his King, and when that King fell, defended me."

"Why do you never pick up a blade?" Glorfindel asked Lindir, his brow furrowed in confusion. "You never spar or join in any of the training."

Lindir put his fork aside. "I have not wielded a blade since Barad-dûr, my Lord. I have no desire to fight," he said frankly.

"But, why?" Glorfindel repeated. He was a warrior, after all, and always had been. It was his passion, his calling, and he could not imagine anyone who had tasted the thrill of the fight, heard the blade split the air, not wanting to feel it again and again.

"I was a poor warrior, despite what the King may lead you to believe." Lindir did not like where this conversation had turned and he fought the urge to run from the room.

Thranduil's voice rang through the room. "Oh, but you were. He was a tall and a fell beast of war, and he defended us well. It was a shame when he put his sword away, vowing to never lift it again."

Glorfindel remained confused. He had the impression there were two conversations occurring, but he only knew the topic of one of them. "If you were so accomplished, Lindir, why did you make such a vow?"

Lindir's stormy eyes flashed angrily. "I chose to never fight again because I was not as accomplished as I should have been. When I should have been at my King's back, I was not, and a terrible blow was laid upon him. Due to my inaction, my lack of alertness, my King lost all that made him a great and fearful warrior."

The Elda smiled, shaking his head. "Oropher was a great warrior, aye, but it is not your fault he has fallen."

"I was not speaking of Oropher," Lindir said quietly, his eyes fixed on Thranduil's impassive face. "Was I, my King?" When Thranduil offered no response, Lindir turned to Glorfindel. "I was not where I should have been that day, and Thranduil suffered a terrible wound. An Orc struck him with a club. There was much blood, and we all feared we had lost both our Kings. But Thranduil is far more resilient than most, and he survived the wound to his head."

"Yet you say he has been forever injured..." Glorfindel mused.

Thranduil cleared his throat. "I am," he said raggedly, finally life sparking in those cold, cold eyes. "The blow stole my sight and my hearing from me."

Lindir wiped at his cheeks. "It is something I never forgave myself for, and neither did Thranduil. I swore never to be the reason another suffered so, and I put my sword away."

"You cannot be deaf, my Lord," Glorfindel insisted. "You converse with us as if you can hear us."

"I most certainly am, Glorfindel," Thranduil replied. "I can converse with you only because Badhron is here. He speaks for you to me. He forms words and common phrases in a language we have developed by making the symbols for each in my palm. It is the only way I could communicate, and so it was necessary. Not many know of my condition, for it is a closely-guarded secret. I know these halls so well that I can navigate them myself, and Badhron is always at my side when I am with other Elves." His voice was even, reciting how he lived his life as if he were reciting a menu to his cook, and Lindir's heart broke anew to hear that deadness in his old lover's voice.

Lindir glanced to where the two Elves' hands met and noticed a rhythm to the pattern of the stroking of Thranduil's palm. "You speak to him," Lindir whispered in amazement.

Badhron nodded. "I am one of three in these halls who can."

"Teach me," Lindir demanded before he could think about the implications of such an order. He met Badhron's eyes. "There are things I must say to him, but I do not wish any other to be privy to the conversation. Teach me, please."

More movement in the lax palm, but Thranduil said nothing, his lips set instead in a grim line.

Glorfindel just shook his head and put his napkin aside. "I must return to Imladris in one week's time. I will leave Lindir with you, my Lord, and he may return when the season changes with the gifts you wish to bestow on my Lord Elrond." The Elda did not miss the longing in Lindir's eyes, and a ray of hope that shone in their grey depths when Badhron told him that yes, one could communicate with the King.

There was more between them than a failed warrior and a wounded king, but Glorfindel was old enough, and wise enough, not to ask.

*****

He was a diligent student. Lindir would wake with Anor, seek out Badhron, and they would begin a lesson. Badhron had seen no other student as obsessive as Lindir was, spending hours and hours learning the hundreds of phrases and a whole new alphabet. He would then fall into deep reverie after Ithil reached his pinnacle, only to wake a few hours later to begin his day all over.

Within a week, he could speak with Badhron about the weather. Within a month, he was able to converse as he conversed with all others in Thranduil's court. His frustration was channeled into perfecting the hand signs, focused on that final goal of _speaking_ with Thranduil for the first time in over a thousand years. Just that hope was enough to bring tears to Lindir's exhausted eyes at the end of each day. It was at the end of such a day that Lindir found himself caught in the past, into a decree he could not even argue against.

// I will not have you wait upon me as if I were nothing but a burden to you, nothing more than a guilty conscience that haunts you. No, you will leave this realm, leave me, and _never_ return! I will not have you bound to me in guilt, Lindir, in this twisted sense of duty to me. Go! Leave me! Do not return! //

The clatter of the candlesticks on the floor echoed in his memory as he watched his painfully thin lover stumble from the bed. Thranduil was so angry, so afraid, and Lindir had only wanted to comfort him. But there was no way to offer that comfort, no way to say the words stuck in his throat or to show him that guilt was not what held him to Thranduil's side. He had reached out, his hand hovered above Thranduil's flushed cheek, but he did not touch him.

// Notice me //, he had whispered in that silent room. // Notice me and take my hand, my love. Let me in and share your pain with me. You ask me to leave your side, but how can I when my heart tells me to do so would be to abandon you? How can you even ask this of me? //

Thranduil had not reached out, though, and no sign was given that the new King had even heard him. Of course he had not heard him; Thranduil would never hear again, and the blame came to rest heavily on Lindir's shoulders. The minstrel had lowered his hand and his head, tears falling from his eyes in small crystal drops.

In just a moment, one strike of a club, they had gone from inseparable lovers to strangers, and Lindir had prayed for the strength to do what was right. Why would Thranduil choose to carry on in this new life without the mate to his soul? Why carry on without him when Lindir had sworn to stand beside him through all trials of their lives? Did Thranduil expect him to take that back, to leave him frightened, alone, and in this new, all-encompassing darkness?

// I can still smell you, minstrel. Leave! // Thranduil had screamed as he tripped over a chair, falling to the cold stone floor. Lindir had cried out, his tears coming in a new wave as Thranduil sat on the floor, sobbing. // Go away, Lindir. Please. //

It was the 'please' that had made him nod, his mind in a foggy daze as he spoke words only he would remember.

// I will do as my King commands//, he had said to those unhearing ears. // I will always do as my King commands. // And he had left.

From that day forth, Lindir's dreams had been haunted by the feline green eyes and the rumbling laughter of a lover who had died on the field of battle. He had never taken another lover, never trusted his heart to any other. His love for Thranduil had not diminished, even when the news of his marriage had reached Lindir's ears. Lindir had mourned for Thranduil when his young wife was lost in childbirth, something so rare that none had heard of it before. Elrond had pondered for weeks over the correspondences from the healers in Mirkwood, wondering how a healthy, vibrant Elf could die from bringing a new babe into the world.

In the end, there was no answer, there was no reason other than... it simply was.

Lindir rolled over on the mattress restlessly. It was hard to sleep when he could sense Thranduil near him. He could almost remember those calloused hands wandering the planes of his body, teasing him hard, and pulling sighs and moans from him as no other had. With the Wood Elf, Lindir had felt strong, as if he could conquer any obstacle that was presented to him.

And yet, the one obstacle he wished he could have overcome had actually been his undoing. He could not make Thranduil understand his love, or his acceptance, and so he had walked away from the broken King. The wings he had once flown on had been torn from him, and he had fallen long before reaching the ground. He still needed Thranduil, was still in love with him, and wondered why the Valar had set him on this path again. Thranduil was so very different, was no longer the Elf he had known and loved, but...

There was something in those peridot eyes that called to him, reminded him of what had been and made promises of what could once again be.

That was why he woke each morning and learned a new way to speak.

He would tell Thranduil all that was locked in his heart, all he had wanted to say all those years ago when there had been no way to speak to the Elf. And, for once, Thranduil would _have_ to listen to him, would have to face that he was needed... and that, maybe, he still needed Lindir.

*****

Thranduil shook his head. "No, I will not speak with him! I did not give you permission to teach him the language, Badhron."

Badhron shook his head, signing into Thranduil's cupped palm. ** He was most insistent. What was the harm in teaching him how to speak to you? **

"Badhron," Thranduil said, his voice dark with anger, "no good can come of speaking with him."

** And no harm can, either **, Badhron said, snatching his hand away.

"You cannot walk away, Badhron! Not in the middle of a conversation."

Badhron reached out. ** Lindir will be in with you in a moment. You can carry on this conversation with him. ** The Seneschal exited Thranduil's office and entered the antechamber where Lindir stood nervously. "You may enter," he informed the dark-haired Elf. "The King awaits."

He knew the moment Lindir joined him in the office. The scent of roses and pine reached his nose and spoke to him of cool nights spent rolling around together on the forest floor. Thranduil sat on the low divan that occupied one corner of the room, his palm resting up, waiting for Lindir's touch. He was not prepared for the jolt he felt when those slender fingers brushed his skin and formed the simple phrase my King.

"Lindir," Thranduil replied stiffly.

** You are angry. **

"Of course I am. I did not give Badhron permission to teach this to you. If I desired to speak with you, I would have commanded your presence while Badhron spoke for you."

** I did not want Badhron to speak for me, Thranduil. I am more than capable of doing that for myself. There are also things we need to discuss that I would not like for your Seneschal to hear. **

Thranduil turned in Lindir's direction. He may have been unable to see the Elf, to know what emotion shone in his face, but he was able to give him a vicious, furious look. "We have nothing to discuss."

** We have much to discuss. **

"Say what you have to, and then leave."

Thranduil felt a minute tremor in the fingers that touched his hand; he wanted to reach out and touch Lindir, to tell the singer that there was no need to feel fear. Instead, he clenched his jaw and waited for Lindir's words, words that would be hundreds of years too late.

** I wanted to first say how much it pained me to hear of your wife's death. Such a young Elf, and such unusual circumstances. **

"They were not unusual. She was given too much of a sedative and did not wake from it," Thranduil said dispassionately. "It was an accident, but it was necessary in order for Legolas to be birthed."

Thranduil assumed Lindir's sudden silence was due to shock. The reasons behind his wife's untimely death had not gone beyond the birthing room, and Thranduil could not understand why he had just told Lindir. "Lindir?" he asked after an even longer pause.

** I am ** Another pause. ** I am sorry, Thranduil. I did not know. **

"How could you?"

** Your son is strong; he will be a great goat. **

Thranduil furrowed his brow in puzzlement. "A great goat? Why would Legolas be a goat, Lindir?"

** Forgive me. I meant to say he would be a great warrior. This is all still very new to me. **

"Obviously." Thranduil felt very weary and only wanted to sleep. "Lindir, could we continue this conversation at another time? I am very fatigued, and I wish to rest before the evening meal."

** Of course. **

Thranduil withdrew his hand, standing as he sighed. "Come to my chambers tonight after the meal and we can speak." He did not wait for Lindir to confirm the invitation; he simply left the bard and slowly walked to his rooms.

If a simple, mundane conversation exhausted him so, what would a conversation about their past do to him?

As he curled atop his mattress, his pillows cradling his head and his arms hugging himself tightly, Thranduil allowed his mind to wander. He made believe that long, lithe arms were wrapped around him, that the scent of roses blanketed the room and that Lindir's soft voice spoke to him as he drifted into reverie.

It was one of a thousand memories Thranduil unconsciously clung to, and it, just like all the others, brought only sorrow and tears. This time, though, it also brought a sense of fear that Thranduil had not felt in many years.

As sleep came closer, Thranduil did as he had done every night since Lindir had left him. He prayed.

'Valar, please, I beg of you. Make his voice die, his image fade, the memory of him disappear. Please, mend my heart.'

But, the prayer always seemed to fall on deaf ears, and it was an irony not lost upon the Elvenking.

*****

Lindir paced his small room, wringing his hands nervously. He had not gone to the evening meal, his stomach too tense to tolerate food. His mind was constantly replaying the short conversation he had had with the King. Lindir was now terrified of any further conversation, afraid that he would make an even larger mistake in his choice of words. A goat, of all things!

But, he also knew he could not put the meeting aside. They needed to put the past behind them, perhaps view the future with new eyes and new hope. Now that his past was once again so near, Lindir felt he saw his present and future so much more clearly. In fact, it seemed that the only way he could see clearly was with the sharpness of the heartbreak he felt. Lindir reached out and grasped the latch of his door, taking a deep breath before he opened it, and stepped out in the deserted corridor. The evening meal was past, but most of Thranduil's subjects remained in the main dining hall. He quickly navigated the rough-hewn halls, finding his way slowly to Thranduil's private quarters.

Thranduil's rooms were situated far from the main settlement of his people, deep in the recesses of the cavernous halls. Badhron had told Lindir how to find the King's quarters, and how to alert the Sinda to his presence. Thranduil kept a large dog in his quarters that would nuzzle his hand when the bell over the door was rung. An ornate braided cord was attached to the bell and hung outside in the hallway. It was this cord that Lindir tugged gently upon. After a few moments, Thranduil's face with its crystalline eyes peered out the door. He held out his hand, palm up, and waited.

** Lindir **, the minstrel signed into that cupped hand.

"Come in," Thranduil said, stepping back to allow Lindir entrance. As he entered, Lindir noted the enormous black hound watching him warily with bright blue eyes. Once the dog was convinced that his master was welcoming of the newcomer, he padded over to the fireplace and curled up on the floor.

The main room, which was a moderate sized sitting area, was decorated in ruby and topaz, the jewel-toned colors rich and warm. Tapestries covered the cold stone walls and thick furs were scattered over the bare floor. In a room that could have been uninviting and frigid due to its occupant's lack of sight, Lindir was surprised to find such color and texture in each item chosen for the space.

Thranduil sat on a chair, the creak of the soft, well-worn leather comforting to Lindir's ears. "I do not mean to sound commanding or as if I see myself above your station, Lindir, but this is a seat I find most comfortable. You could drag over the small footstool by the fireplace, or you could seat yourself on the furred floor at my feet so that we may speak."

The position was not lost on Lindir, though he was not certain Thranduil remembered as well as he did. So many nights he had sat on the floor, his head resting against Thranduil's thigh as the then-Prince stroked his hair and listened to his songbird sing. Lindir shoved the memory aside and gracefully fell to floor at Thranduil's feet, hesitantly taking Thranduil's hand in his own. He cradled the warm flesh, closed his eyes as he ran his fingers over the creases and calluses of his old lover's hand, and fought tears that threatened to choke him. He could feel the stiffness of Thranduil's limb, and through blurry eyes, he could see the grim set of Thranduil's lips. The King was uncomfortable, but he would not voice that discomfort. Lindir let out a long breath and began to sign.

** You sent me away when I could not argue with you. **

Thranduil continued to look straight ahead with vacant, pale eyes. "No one could argue with me for almost two decades, Lindir. It took Badhron that long to figure out a method for us to communicate and an equal number of years for us to work all the symbols into a language we could use. Did you plan to remain the lover of an invalid for all those years, unable to speak to me at all, bound to me by your own guilt and sense of honor?"

Lindir wished he could express his anger toward Thranduil, but the most he could do was sign quickly. And to sign quickly risked him calling Thranduil a she-cow or some other silliness. ** It is only your own pettiness that drove me away, Thranduil. I wanted to stay with you, to be by your side as I had since our childhood. It was you who refused to accept that I wanted you unconditionally. **

"Unconditionally? No one wants a lover who they cannot even _speak_ to, Lindir." Thranduil's voice was tinged with bitterness, and Lindir wished silently that he could remove all the anger Thranduil still felt.

** I wanted you. Yes, I felt so much guilt at not protecting you, but I did not wish to remain with you to atone for that. I could never atone for it, but I could be by your side. I could-- ** Lindir stopped in mid-sentence. Badhron had not taught him to sign the word 'love'!

"You could what?" Thranduil sneered.

Lindir did the only thing he could think of. He bent his head and pressed his lips to Thranduil's palm and whispered, "Have loved you."

The room became deathly still: Thranduil with his back ramrod straight and his eyes wide with Lindir's lips still pressed to his skin. He had not heard the words, but Lindir knew the King had understood what words his lips had formed.

Lindir lifted his head and gazed up at Thranduil only to have his voice stolen from him. Tears trickled down Thranduil's sharp features, his transparent green eyes swimming in shimmering saltwater. The Wood Elf turned his sightless eyes to Lindir as another set of tears made their way down his white cheeks. "Loved me?" he whispered raggedly. And then he took Lindir's hand and in the palm signed, ** Love, loved, loving, lover, beloved. **

The minstrel smiled as Thranduil showed him the word he had not known, and he knew he could not say all he had wanted to. ** I have loved you from the moment you spoke my name, Lindir said into Thranduil's cupped palm. I have called you beloved in my heart since that day, and I will forever love you. I would not presume I still have your love after you have wed and had a son, but know that you will always have my love, my King. **

Lindir was not prepared for the gentle touch of Thranduil's other hand on his face, softly tracing his features. There was a look of wonderment on Thranduil's own face as he rediscovered the beauty of his old lover. Lindir watched him with a mixture of fear and hope, which soon gave way to nervous anticipation when Thranduil's fingers brushed his lips and the King's head bent to meet his partially open mouth.

The kiss was tender, with slightly parted lips and tentative tongues touched. With one shared breath, Thranduil cupped Lindir's face and tilted the Noldo's head, deepening the kiss. Lindir moaned into Thranduil's mouth as their tongues danced, the remembered taste of the fair Elf flooding all his senses. He bunched his fists into the loose fabric of Thranduil's shirt and pulled him closer -- he needed Thranduil closer.

As if hearing his thoughts, Thranduil grasped Lindir's arms and lifted him up, settling him in his lap. Lindir straddled Thranduil's thighs and sighed softly into the kiss they still shared. The King's hands were all over his body, a frenzy of motion, and Lindir was soon drunk on the kisses and frantic touches. The warm, dry hands slipped under his tunic at the same time Thranduil's lips traveled down his throat, and Lindir felt the firm press of his lover's mouth to his neck as his nipples were teased and pinched.

"I wish I could hear you," Thranduil murmured against Lindir's flesh. "I can remember your moans, but the memories are poor substitutes for the reality."

His tunic was yanked over his head and Thranduil's mouth was on his chest. With the Elvenking's hand spread wide over his lower back, Lindir was able to bend backward, to bow his chest for more contact. He shivered and shook in Thranduil's embrace, his skin hot and flushed, and his arousal thick and needy between his legs.

"Please," he whispered to those deaf ear as he squirmed under the teeth that nipped at his sore nipple. "Please, Thranduil."

"I know you speak, I can feel it in your chest..." Thranduil softly reminded him, forcing Lindir to sit up straight in his lap.

Lindir rested his head in the crook of Thranduil's neck, his eyes hooded and glazed as he signed lazily into his lover's cupped palm. ** I need you. Please. **

Thranduil pushed Lindir off of his lap gently and nodded toward the sideboard. "There is a small bottle of oil there that I use for my hair; we can use that."

A smile tugged at Lindir's lips and he walked to the large cupboard. He located the bottle and brought it back to the chair, not surprised that Thranduil had taken the opportunity to strip himself. The scars of battle were faded, but Lindir could easily remember where each had come from. Thranduil stood tall and hard in the firelight, and Lindir could not help but kneel before him. His lips traced the pattern of life on Thranduil's body, his tongue sliding easily over the puckered flesh and lower still. Thranduil's sharp intake of breath when Lindir lapped at the tip of his sex was almost musical to Lindir's ears, and he wanted to hear more.

He slid his mouth slowly over the taut flesh, filling his mouth and throat with Thranduil. The deep, long groan was his reward for his efforts, and he swallowed around the length, moving it further into the fluttering tightness of his throat. He felt Thranduil's knees buckle and withdrew quickly as the King sank back into the chair.

"By the Valar," Thranduil said harshly. "I had forgotten that particular talent of yours." He closed his clear green eyes, hid those blank depths briefly, and when they were revealed to Lindir again, the minstrel was certain they were darker, cloudy with lust. "Undress, singer," Thranduil ordered lowly.

He never took his eyes off the golden Elf as stood up, discarded his boots, unlaced his leggings and bared himself to the King's unseeing eyes. Those knowing hands found his nude body instantly, mapping the contours of muscle and bone, of fine hair and stiff need. A gentle cupping of his tight sac, a slight pull there, and Lindir was again in Thranduil's lap, again straddling those toned thighs. Their shafts rubbed and bobbed together briefly, drawing shuddering breaths from them, before Lindir cupped his hand and poured the oil into it, forming a shimmering pool in his palm. He carefully dropped the glass bottle to the plush rug and led Thranduil's fingers to the pooled liquid.

Thranduil dipped two fingers into the oil, and Lindir's breath caught with expectation. He watched the finger slowly disappear between his legs, felt the tentative touch to his backside, and then sureness of Thranduil as the King moved beyond his insecurity. Lindir wanted him, wanted this, and the minstrel tried to convey that need with every movement, every vibration of his body.

The fingers penetrated him, prepared the way while Lindir used the remaining oil to coat Thranduil's shaft. Their moans were soft; Thranduil's lips again pressed to Lindir's throat to feel the sounds his lover made. Thranduil placed his hands on Lindir's hips, laving the small bulge in Lindir's throat with his tongue. Lindir kept one hand on Thranduil's shoulder as he reached behind his body, guiding Thranduil into his body.

Thranduil hissed as Lindir sat, his lips still against the lifeline of sound in Lindir. As his body was filled, spread, plundered, Lindir shouted out and clung to Thranduil. Tears spilled over his lashes, wet Thranduil's face, a silent show of new pain and long-forgotten pleasures. He sobbed as they moved, as he felt that slick, hard heat slide in and out of his passage. Lindir had never known a feeling more exquisite than Thranduil claiming him, of his body opening for the King to master and own. Captured tightly between their grinding bodies was Lindir's sex, damp with sweat and his own clear juice. There was not enough friction, though, to bring him to his peak and he whimpered pleadingly.

Their coupling seemed too swift as Thranduil brought his hand between them, squeezed and manipulated Lindir's arousal with expert fingers. Lindir sat down hard on Thranduil's lap, took the King as deeply as he could, his seed spattering against Thranduil's belly. "Thranduil!" Lindir cried hoarsely, as his own muscles pulled and coaxed Thranduil's climax from him. His passage was flooded with the scalding flow of the King's essence, and Lindir slumped into Thranduil's arms. Exhaustion quickly set into his limbs, but neither Elf moved, savoring the last moments of connection.

"I love you," Lindir whispered against Thranduil's neck, not noticing the stiffness in Thranduil's posture or the tears in the King's eyes.

*****

At some point during the night, Thranduil carried Lindir into the inner chamber, laying him on the mattress. When Thranduil crawled in beside him, Lindir instinctively moved closer to the welcoming warmth of Thranduil's arms. Sleep overcame him again, a deep, sated rest he had only ever felt in the King's arms.

In the deep cavern of Thranduil's halls, day and night were not so clear. Fresh air teased Lindir's nose, told him that the sun kissed the morning dew of the grass outside the magical gates. He stretched his sore limbs, his thighs protesting such use, but Lindir enjoyed that protest. It was a physical sign of the loving he had received, as was the slow throb of his backside. He turned in the loose embrace Thranduil had held him in through the night and gazed down at the smug smile still on the King's face.

"You look like the cat in your kitchens when she manages to sneak into the creamery while the attendant is out." He kissed Thranduil's cheek tenderly before sliding from the bed.

"And you snore as loud as a Balrog shrieks."

Lindir spun around and stared in amazement at Thranduil who was now on his elbow, smiling while his eyes gazed blankly ahead. "You can hear me?" Lindir sputtered as he sat back down on the edge of the bed.

"Still faintly, but clearer than last night," Thranduil confessed. "I have been awake all this time, just... listening."

"How?"

Thranduil's brow furrowed. "You will need to speak a bit louder, melethen, and perhaps slower. While I can hear you, some of your words sound as if they are being spoken into the wind."

"Of course," Lindir agreed. He took a visible breath, and then smiled widely. "How can this be?"

Thranduil returned the smile. "I do not know. All I know is I can hear your sweet, lyrical voice again, and I do not think I will ever tire of it!"

The shock melted away and Lindir pounced on Thranduil playfully. "Thank the Valar! Oh, I am so happy, Thranduil!"

"You are happy?" Thranduil laughed as he kissed Lindir. "I can hear! You cannot imagine my joy!"

"Oh, I think I can imagine it, for it would mirror my own joy!" Lindir said carefully, his voice louder than usual so that Thranduil could hear him more easily.

Thranduil smirked as he cupped Lindir's jaw with his hands. "I can tell that you have been in Imladris; you do not speak as I remember. You sound more like Elrond than my minstrel." Thranduil drew Lindir close for another deep kiss, and a plaintive moan from Lindir made Thranduil pull back. "And I want to hear more of that," he whispered hotly. "Now."

He pushed Lindir onto his back and bit at Lindir's side. He worked his way lower, teasing and tasting every piece of flesh he found. Lindir's moans and cries, sobs and pleas all drove him onward. When he reached the proof of Lindir's need, he smiled wickedly.

"Thranduil," Lindir panted, "please..."

"What is it you want?" Thranduil prompted, swiping at the bead of fluid on the tip of Lindir's sex.

"Take me!" Lindir barked desperately at the Elvenking.

Thranduil shook his head. "Oh, no. I want to hear your beautiful voice; I want to concentrate solely on those cries." He opened his mouth wide and took Lindir as deep as he could, though he did not possess the same talents Lindir did. He stroked the remaining column with his hand, the moisture from his mouth slicking the skin.

With each stroke, each suck, Lindir writhed wantonly, moaned with abandon. Thranduil reached between his own legs, stroked his shaft in time with his movements over Lindir's length.

"Thranduil!" Lindir shouted shrilly just before he bucked with release. Thick, viscous seed filled his mouth, and Thranduil carefully pulled away from his lover, capturing all the white fluid in his mouth. He discreetly wiped his mouth on a section of the sheet, spitting the bitterness into the fabric, and then cleaned his hand and groin of his own fluids before lying down beside Lindir.

Lindir kissed Thranduil's burning lips, licking at the stray smear of seed. "I love you."

Thranduil all but purred his satisfaction. "I love you, too."

After several moments of silence, the shrieking of an infant could be heard. Thranduil sat up suddenly at the sound, new tears forming in his eyes. He turned toward the sound of Lindir exiting the bed.

"Your son calls for you, Thranduil," Lindir said softly.

The silken feel of fabric brushed his arm and he took the robe Lindir offered him. "My son," he breathed in awe as he dressed, the reality of his own child striking him dumb.

*****

The season passed quickly and Thranduil found himself in the midst of many changes. Despite Badhron's insistence that they celebrate the return of Thranduil's hearing, the King and his minstrel declined. Thranduil explained that, despite the occasional rumor, his people had never truly known of his hearing loss, and the healers they had since spoken with were not certain _how_ Thranduil had regained his hearing. Or if he would retain it. In either case, there was little sense in announcing it.

Instead, life continued as it once did. A governess alone no longer tended to Legolas' needs; Thranduil adored the hours he spent with his son, connecting with the child as he had never had the opportunity to. Lindir sank further into his love and adoration for both father and son, and time ceased to have any meaning. Days were long and drowsy, spent in courtyards, by crystalline pools of spring water, or among the trees and hollows of Thranduil's wood. Lindir would sing for the King in the evenings, his voice echoing through the halls and soothing all who heard him.

The nights were filled with passion and intense heat. They met in a tangle of limbs and hair, midnight and sunlight, breathless and wanting. After their bodies were sated and the lamplight was low, Thranduil would tell Lindir of his love, and Lindir would kiss him, whispering of his own love. It was a ritual they heeded no matter what the circumstances of the day -- Lindir's last words of the day were _always_ 'I love you'. Thranduil had only once given Lindir an explanation of this odd request, but when he had shared his fears, Lindir had willingly agreed.

Thranduil feared to awake one morning with his hearing snatched away from him again. He had told Lindir, with fear twisting his voice, that if that was to be so, then the last thing he wanted to hear before silence consumed him again was the sweet words of his minstrel.

Each night, Lindir kissed him and whispered 'I love you' before drawing up the quilts and resting his ear against Thranduil's heart.

As spring deepened, Thranduil noticed something changing. He could see shadow and light, knew when Lindir walked before him or his son fell to the floor. It was another small marvel that awed both Lindir and Badhron, and Thranduil delighted in their excitement. Neither spoke of the coming day they both knew loomed on the horizon, and chose only to live in the moments they had. They were Elves, after all, and they had all the time of Arda.

Glorfindel arrived one late spring day with a small entourage; he had come to collect his Lord's Master Bard.

"Glorfindel," Lindir argued, his tone dark and dangerous. All those gathered in the room were shocked by such a sound issuing from the stormy-eyed minstrel. "I will not be taken from these halls as if they were not my home."

"That is just it, Lindir, these halls are _not_ your home," Glorfindel reminded him. "Your home and obligations lie with Master Elrond, not King Thranduil, regardless of personal ties newly forged."

Lindir's eyes flashed as he took a step closer to the Elda. "They are not 'newly forged'. They existed long before Imladris herself was founded!"

Glorfindel straightened his back and looked toward Thranduil's still and silent form. "We agreed, King Thranduil, that at the end of the season Lindir would return to his own realm. The season has ended. It is time for him to return to his home and to his duties."

"And he will," Thranduil said stiffly. "Would you please excuse us?" he asked of those gathered around the couple before Lindir could object.

"Of course," Glorfindel said as he bowed low to the King. "I shall be in my chambers." The golden Elf exited the room, followed by his men and the King's advisors, leaving the King and the minstrel alone.

Once the door closed, Lindir turned on Thranduil. "You cannot make me leave you again, Thranduil. You cannot -- I will not allow you to!"

Thranduil crossed the room and cupped Lindir's face. "You have commitments, Lindir, duties that cannot be set aside. Elrond would not force you to remain upon your return; you are an adult Elf with a free will, after all. But, you should, at the very least, train one of your more advanced students to fulfill your function in his household -- or choose an equally fair outcome."

Lindir's eyes filled with tears and he was grateful Thranduil could not see them. He blinked twice, and the tears spilled out onto his cheeks, wetting Thranduil's fingers.

"Do not cry, little singer," Thranduil said softly as he kissed the salty streaks. "You have healed my heart, my hearing has returned, and my eyes may yet repair as well. What room have you for sadness? Go home to your valley; simply promise to return to me before the winter snow covers the pass."

"I promise," Lindir swore, sealing his oath with a kiss. "I will always return to you."

Thranduil smiled, the clear peridot of his eyes sparkling with happiness. What he had gained was more than his hearing, more than love, but something far more valuable.

Hope.

The End


End file.
